The Dark Lord (87 page)

Maxian laughed hoarsely. "You do not believe in Elysium?"

I see only darkness, my lord.

"Very well," the prince said, turning his attention to the slowly shifting cloud of sparks. "My mind is upon you now, little spirits, and you must choose." Maxian's face drew intent, eyes darkening, an odd, bluish light flickering around him in a gossamer shroud. "The loyal will remain, the treacherous will find true oblivion waiting for them. I have no time and no patience to coddle you..."

Rippling ultraviolet shaded through the room as the prince bent to his task, face a grim mask. The wailing roared up again, though no human ear could perceive the shrieks and moans of the tortured spirits. Columella turned away, his face against the wall. He could not bear to see such a judgement, though his withered old heart exalted to find another crumb of existence on his plate. The greenish light in his eye dimmed, flickering down to nothing, no more than the faintest spark of hate. Waiting patiently, hidden among the ghostly pattern of the old scholar.

"Caesar! Caesar! A ship is entering the port! It's one of ours!"

Aurelian turned away from a high, narrow window, brow furrowed in unease.
Why have the dogs stopped barking?
Following his usual custom, the prince was wearing the full armor of a common legionnaire, heavy, red hair hanging greasily around his shoulders. The last of his servants had been sent away as medical orderlies, leaving Aurelian to see to his own kit and toilet.

One of the local boys swerved between rows of tables crowded into the big room, brown face slick with moisture. Aurelian held up a hand, making the lad skid to a halt. The prince was uneasy; he had been peering at the sky, which was turning an odd green color with the onset of late afternoon. The street outside the building was empty too, which was strange. Usually a constant, noisy throng trampled every square foot of ground inside the walls, particularly with the city population swollen by men and women fleeing the fighting in the countryside.

"What did you see?"

The boy wiped his face, catching his breath. A light rain was falling outside, presaging the usual grumble of afternoon thunderstorms. Grayish haze lay over the city, discharging a tepid, oily drizzle. As summer advanced in the delta, the weather grew more and more oppressive. Even sunset brought no relief, the city sweltering throughout the night in a bath of its own heat and sweat. Aurelian mopped the base of his neck with a damp rag. He really hated this place.

"A grain hauler, master! Four decks of sails, as tall as the Lighthouse!"

Aurelian squinted through the window at the sky again. "Which direction?"

"From the west," the boy answered, flashing a smile. "A Roman ship!"

"Is it?" Aurelian swallowed, feeling a cloying thickness in his throat. He turned, glowering at the men laboring over the desks. The flight of the civil government from the city had left him with only a few dozen competent clerks, who labored in the headquarters occupying the harbormaster's offices near the junction of the Heptastadion causeway and the city. The vast complex of the Bruchion—the usual governor's residence—was crowded to the rafters with refugees from the delta and upriver.

"Phranes!" One of the clerks turned to face him, leathery old face drawn tight with fatigue. "Hasn't the grain fleet been rerouted to Africa?"

Phranes nodded. "Aye, my lord. We're expecting nothing from Rome."

Aurelian's face twisted into a sour grin at the dry cynicism in the man's voice. Not a single ship had arrived in port for the past eleven days—not so much as a fishing barque or a courier boat. The prince guessed the Roman fleet was being held back—
At Syracuse? Or Lepcis Magna?
—while the Emperor prepared a counterblow.
But relief will not come for another... week. If then.

"Lad, were there flags or banners of any kind?" Aurelian's fingers curled around the pommel of his
gladius
, a habitual, unthinking action. The heavy weight of metal on his shoulders and chest was comforting.

"Just the usual ones, Caesar." The boy shrugged, spreading his hands.

Aurelian looked out the window again. The queer copper coloring was spreading through the clouds like ink spilling into a murky pool. His lips tightened. The city had fallen silent.

"Runners!" The prince spun on his heel, sharp voice booming across the quiet room. Scribes and clerks jerked around, staring at him in surprise. "Phranes—gather everyone up and issue spears, knives, whatever is to hand! Barricade the windows and doors. You boys, get to the wall commanders instantly—the Persians are about to attack. You, my lad, tell the commander of my Praetorians in the atrium they're down to the docks at a run, to keep your grain hauler from landing, or to capture the vessel if naught else."

Everyone was frozen for a moment, then Aurelian snatched up his helmet and bolted from the room at a dead run, weapons and armor jangling.

"To arms!" he shouted, jogging down the steps onto the broad dockside avenue. Messenger boys sprinted past; a dozen brown whippets unleashed. "Romans to arms!"

His guardsmen leapt up from their pallets, weapons in hand. They immediately poured down the steps behind him, a mob of men in stained, battered iron armor. Every man—whether he had been sleeping, gambling or complaining—was ready to fight; spears, axes, swords already in hand. Aurelian flashed a grin, seeing their grim faces intent upon him.

"A ship filled with the enemy is closing upon the docks. Take her if you can, else burn her to the water. If she's truly ours, get back here to me as fast as you can. I'll need your strong arms! There will be bloody work today. Sound the alarm as you go, and go swiftly!"

Aurelian slid the helmet on, tightening the strap under his chin. The Praetorians flooded past, shaking out into column as they scrambled out of the building. Their boots rang loudly on the paving stones. High above, on the roof, someone began ringing an alarm bar, a clashing, tinny sound that fell flat in the leaden air. The prince strode out into the avenue, staring up at the sky.

The green stain continued to crawl across the heavens and its shadow was dark on the rooftops.

Where shall I go?
he wondered, limbs trembling with bloodfire, a nervous, grainy edge to his thoughts. He yearned to rush down one of the deserted streets, screaming a battle cry. Instead, to his disgust, he realized there was nothing to do but go back inside and wait for messengers to come to him.

With a last, furious look around, Aurelian stomped back inside.

Khalid al'Walid splashed through the surf, feeling stones and gravel roll under his boots. A low island lay before him, the highest prominence a golden roof rising above a brood of accompanying temples. The beach was crowded with men in green-and-tan, clambering out of long boats and barges and skiffs. More boats filled with dark-bearded men maneuvered offshore, sails white against a brassy sea. The young Arab grinned in delight, feeling warm water slosh against his calves. The strand was empty, without so much as a fisherman in sight.

"Forward!" he shouted, clear young voice rising above the slap of the water and the shouts of the Sahaba as they disembarked. Threads of fog rolled overhead, hiding the sun and obscuring the flat, green sea behind them. Khalid trudged up through golden sand, aiming for an opening between the buildings ahead. Arab skirmishers scattered across the beach, bows in hand, heads high and alert.

"Form on your banners," the
qalb
section commanders yelled at their men. "Form up! Form up!"

Horns and trumpets wailed, adding to the racket. Arab and Greek soldiers milled on the beach, searching for their tent-mates and rallying standards. More boats ran in to the shore and men leapt down into the water with abandon. The barges in the first wave backed oars, trying to clear the beach. Most of the soldiers clinging to the railings were pale-faced, but they splashed into the water, desperately eager to reach steady ground. All possibility of organization had been lost as soon as the flotilla had put to sea from Canopus, seven miles away at the mouth of the Boutikos channel. "Forward! Forward!"

Blank walls etched by the wind and sea rose up at the crest of the beach. Khalid jogged up, now surrounded by a mass of Sahaban fighters in heavy Persian-style armor. The young general's sharp beard and flowing green-and-gold robes were easy to recognize, even in the confusion of the landing. Men gathered around him, seeing his eagle banner snapping in the landward breeze. Between the ancient tombs, an alley led off into a maze of buildings.

Khalid slowed, reaching the entrance to the lane. Sea grass crept to the foot of the walls and scraps of plaster clung to bare stone. The young Arab squinted down the twisting passage, surprised by the heavy quiet pervading the island.

"An island of tombs," he said aloud. "Is anyone alive here, save ourselves?"

Shaking his head, Khalid looked about, spying the hulking figures of Jalal and Shadin among the men climbing up from the beach.

"Generals!" The Eagle stepped out of the phalanx of his guardsmen. The two older Arabs looked up at him with tight, closed expressions. "Jalal—take charge of the landing. Get everyone ashore and formed up. Shadin—you take half the men around that way..." Khalid pointed towards the gleaming red roof and terraces of a massive temple rising at the eastern end of the island. Statues lined the rooftop, most of them gleaming white where their colorful paint had been stripped away by the sea wind. "Capture the lighthouse and the harbor entrance. I'll strike across the island for the causeway."

Both men nodded silently, eyes invisible in the shadow of their helmets. The young Arab could feel their disapproval of his command, but they said nothing. Khalid stared after them as the older men turned away, gesturing for their own aides, messengers and guardsmen. For a moment, he considered calling them back, but put the thought aside.
They are Sahaba,
he reckoned,
and they will fight for the memory of the Teacher, if not for me.

"Forward," Khalid shouted, striding into the lane. With a rasp, he drew the ebon blade once carried by Mohammed from its jeweled sheath. In the diffuse, limpid sunlight the weapon gleamed with a twisting inner flame. A cheer went up at the sight of the blade of the city, and Khalid felt his heart soar at the sound. "With me, lads," he cried, grinning, feeling a wild, unrestrained joy rise in his breast.

At the head of his thousands, the young general strode down the deserted street between ancient, crumbling tombs. What remained of the day's strange quiet immediately dissolved into the commotion of running men in armor, sandals and boots slapping on the paving stones.

"Hold up a moment." Sextus stood, wiping sweat from a suntanned brow. He stared out to sea, across the flat, placid waters of the Great Harbor. The engineer held a large sledge in his hands, but the hammer was forgotten for the moment as he bit his lip in concentration. Frontius paused, sitting up, hands on his knees. Both men had been squatting near the edge of a great arched vault, examining the stonework around a keystone supporting the central section of the massive Heptastation causeway.

A crowd of local workers—fellaheen in white breechclouts and turbans—watched the two Romans suspiciously. The locals were laden with a profusion of iron bars, hammers, mallets, buckets of water and wooden splitting wedges. A handful of Roman citizens in mismatched armor stood near by, watching both the Legion officers and the fellaheen with jaundiced expressions. The citizens had been drafted from their businesses, homes and offices to provide a city militia. Despite the continuing siege, most of the locals seemed content to let the legionaries fight.

"Something is happening." Sextus' voice was flat and Frontius started in alarm, then stared out to sea, following the sharp angle of his friend's pointing arm. Almost two thousand feet away, across the open waters of the harbor, he could barely make out the dark smudge of the sea—intermittent flashes of white from crashing waves outlining the long rubble-filled breakwater.

"I don't see anything..." Frontius stood up as well, squinting ferociously. Off to the left of the breakwater, the towering shape of the Lighthouse—the famous Pharos—made a gleaming white outline against the lead-colored sky. A brilliant disk on the summit of the forty-story building flashed in the dimming sun. The engineer cursed the fickle stars who had burdened him with poor sight. "What is it?"

"Fog," Sextus said in the same flat voice. The older engineer shook himself, then bent down and began jamming his tools and books into a leather shoulder bag. "Rising fast too, all along the breakwater."

"It's afternoon," Frontius said in a disbelieving voice. "There's never any..."

Sextus looked up, eyes narrowed against the afternoon sun glittering from the water. "Sorcery, my friend."

Frontius blanched. He had seen enough horrors in the last four weeks. Still, he was a legionary and if something was happening on the breakwater. Frontius turned, squinting at the low, green shape of the Pharos island lying at the outer end of the causeway. "You don't suppose—"

"You men!" Sextus bellowed, startling the citizens and fellaheen alike into wide-eyed attention. "With me, all of you! Double-time!" The engineer began running north along the Heptastadion towards the palace-crowded island. Frontius caught up with him in a moment, wiry legs easily meeting the pace.

"What do you—" One of the citizens, a baker by trade, was left with his mouth hanging open.

The other Latins stared after the two engineers, then hurried to pick up their jumble of weapons and tools from the ground. A moment later, they too jogged off into the haze rising from the harbor. Watching the Romans disappear into the fog, the fellaheen looked warily at one another, then turned and scuttled towards the city as fast as they could.

Khalid burst from the avenue at a run, shield snug against his left arm, a dim, mist-veiled sun gleaming in the curving blade of his sword. A guttural roar boomed from his men as they saw the enemy. The road wound out between low buildings and onto a broad causeway flanked by a retaining wall on either side and stout pillars carved with dolphins and cranes. The entrance to the Heptastadion was blocked by overturned carts and building materials. Khalid caught sight of Romans crouched behind the barrier, some in armor, some not. Their faces were only blurs as he ran forward, shouting, "at them!"